


The Prodigal's Lament

by Kylenne



Category: Warcraft III
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-06
Updated: 2011-11-06
Packaged: 2017-10-25 18:47:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kylenne/pseuds/Kylenne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A kingdom and a people are reborn, but those left behind will never forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Prodigal's Lament

Nothing could have prepared Kael'thas Sunstrider for what awaited him then. How _could_ one possibly prepare to see the face of genocide? To see everything that one once held dear lying broken and tainted beyond hope of redemption? Thousands of years of history, of magic, of laughter and sorrow snuffed out as though it were nothing, in a matter of days. Everything his ancestors built in such pride...crumbled to dust. Ancient forests burnt to silver ash that still fluttered through the wind as though they were snowflakes. The prince absently brushed them off the violet and gold finery he wore.

The soft runecloth did nothing against that ashen wind. It was a dreadful wind which howled even now on the Isle. It was so cold there, now; never had Kael felt such a chill fall over his homeland. Now, it was ever present, piercing his fair skin deep to the bone. It was the salt in the wound. That chill--that wind carried with it the cries of his people.

And with it, that infernal smell. Ghastly, ever present, no matter how many blocks of sweet resin anyone burned. It penetrated everything; Kael could even smell it in his robes now. His mind reeled from the horror of what that smell represented. What was carried in that wind with the ash. He dared not think of it, not now. There was no time for madness, no time for despair.

"Forgive me, father," he whispered to the small golden box on the altar before him, intricately carved with leaves intertwined with a phoenix crest: the symbol of his proud and storied house, a dynasty that stretched back millennia. His father's remains rested within, quickly set to funeral pyre by Rommath and the others, because they dared not linger. They dared not leave anything for the cursed and damned to claim for their own. Too much already had.

"My king," Rommath said softly from the doorway, with no small amount of relief. Kael looked up to gaze upon his oldest and dearest friend, and it seemed as it had earlier in the day that his mind was a world away from this place. Kael choked back the guilt, burying it once again. He was not the only one who had lost a parent; he was not the only one who had been orphaned in this war. Rommath's sadness was as palpable as the cold stench of death that surrounded them, he appeared haggard and withdrawn, as though he had not slept in days. It made Kael's heart break all over again to see him this way. But he had vowed to be strong for him; he had to be, now. Kael had to be strong for all of them now, it was the only way any of them would survive to see their homeland avenged.

"...no, my friend. That is something I am not," Kael sighed, brushing a hand along the golden box. "Not yet. Perhaps someday, when I set things right. But I am not worthy of such a title. Not when I've failed him so."

"You're not leaving, are you?" Rommath's tone was somewhat alarmed. Kael rose to his feet and went to Rommath, taking his hand fondly, wordlessly. It was a small gesture, but one imbued with a thousand layers of meaning: he was there, his heart was there, and nothing could keep him away in that moment. They exited the antechamber and walked down the hall in silence.

A small multitude of quel'dorei survivors--refugees in their own land--were waiting in the Assembly Chamber, desperately looking to their prince for so many things. Leadership, yes, but above all, right now, what they sought from him was solace. They wanted comfort, they wanted meaning, and Kael would do his best to provide it. He owed them that much, and more. The prince walked to the dais, Rommath at his side, flanked by Lor'themar and Halduron. All four men carried unlit votives, as did every single elf present.

"Brothers and sisters of Quel'Thalas," Kael began solemnly, and all eyes were upon him. Weary eyes, some as haggard as dear Rommath's, eyes that had not shut for sleep but for weeping, some that wept even as he spoke...they were all fixed upon him. He felt it as keenly as he felt their grief, and his own. He would not let them down again. "For perhaps the first time in my life, I am at an utter loss for words. There are no honeyed words, there are no platitudes, and above all else there is no eloquence at all left in my heart. There is only anguish, and rage, and the most profound sorrow. Yes, I grieve, my brothers and sisters...as do we all."

Kael looked down at the votive in his palm, closed his eyes briefly, then continued:

"Tonight, we gather here together, the last children of Quel'Thalas, to remember. We gather to mourn and contemplate the incalculable tragedy that has befallen our proud and ancient homeland. _Shorel'aran, quel'surfal. Shorel'aran, quel'dorei._ " Kael paused, then whispered, " _Anar'alah belore, shorel'aran._ "

With the brief incantation, a small golden flame slowly materialized upon the wick of his candle; with a graceful sweep of his free hand, each candle in the chamber, beginning with Rommath's, was set in gentle flame. It was as though the sun were rising in the room, one beam of light at a time. Soon the entire chamber was bathed in candlelight, framing the faces of the refugees. Even as his heart was heavy with sorrow, Kael was struck by the absolute beauty before his eyes. Even in mourning, his people were filled with immeasurable dignity and grace. He was suddenly filled with a tremendous sense of pride. Were it possible, he would have embraced each one of them by turn, and wept with them.

Instead, Kael did something he had not done for quite some time: he gently cleared his throat, then lifted his voice in song. Not the boyish voice of his youth coaxed from him by his music tutor in a far more innocent time, but a rich _leggiero tenor_ , clear, exquisitely beautiful, pure and true and heartbreaking in the emotion it conveyed. It was an old song, this; a folk dirge that every quel'dorei knew, one as old as his father and older, and Kael sang it as soulfully as it had ever been sung. There was, however, one distinct difference. One single lyric changed when Kael sang it, as the same lyric had been changed nearly three-thousand years before, to remember a different tragedy.

" _Anar'alah...Anar'alah belore...Sin'dorei... shindu fallah na_ "

One by one, just as the candles lit by his magic, so too did his people lift their voices in song to join him: light for light, note for note. Word for word, even the one that was changed; instinctively they knew what Kael intended. The symbolism of what he had done with that word.

_Anar'alah..._

"As we sing, brothers and sisters, for those that shed their blood upon the forests, upon the shining stones of our beloved city, let us speak their names. Let us give names to those we honor with our song. I sing for Anasterian Sunstrider."

And Kael did so. He poured every emotion he had into his lament, every ounce of love and frustration and guilt. Everything his father had ever meant to him. And slowly, his people found the means to speak the names of their own loved ones. Some, like his, were parents; others were lovers, or children, or neighbors. This lament, their shared lament, was for all of them. There were neither titles, nor honorifics. Merely names. Grief, the great leveler, was no respecter of persons; noble was named after commoner, prince after pauper. They were all one now in a way they had never been in life. All were of equal import, and yet they were still a fraction of the countless lives lost.

"I sing for Koltira Dawnweaver, and his brother Faltora."

_...Shindu Sin'dorei..._

"I sing for Teraeis Fairdawn."

_...Shindu fallah na..._

"Ishandarr Evenbrooke."

One by one, the dead were honored.

"I sing for Sylvanas Windrunner," Lor'themar uttered in a choked sob; Halduron gently squeezed his shoulder in a gesture of comfort, and the warrior clasped his hand. Rommath, listless and looking numb, merely closed his eyes.

"I sing for Aelyndra Sunreaver," the Grand Magister said, finding some measure of pride with which to speak his mother's name.

On it continued, until there were no more names left to speak, and the song came to a quiet close. Kael waited for a long moment, the overwhelming sense of catharsis which had come over the room had to run its course.

"As we sing to remember our fallen, as we speak the names that are forever etched in our hearts, and we raise our voices in honor of this great tragedy, I pray of you: let us now and forever more be known not as Children of the High, but Children of the Blood. The blood that was shed so that we might live to avenge the ones we love, the blood that was spent to purchase our own survival at the ultimate cost. I name us _sin'dorei_ not to insult you with exhortations to never forget, for I know that even after the world itself has crumbled to dust, none of you will ever forget what happened here, to the land we've proudly called home for so very long, to the people we love so dear. No, I name us _sin'dorei_ because I do not want the _world_ to forget what has happened here, what has happened to our people and our homeland. I want _Azeroth_ to remember, to know what was lost here. I want them to remember not just a beloved king and his magisters, but the weavers and artisans, the rangers and the teachers, the musicians and the winemakers, the priests and the courtesans. I want them to remember the untold wisdom of our scholars and the laughter of the children. I want them to remember our people and what they meant to us, what their lives and their sacrifice will forever mean to us. _Selama ashal'anore! Selama ashal'sin'dorei!_ "

It was to the echoing sound of that defiant, heartfelt chant that Kael took his leave of the refugees, and went back to the room Rommath had prepared for him, within the confines of the apartment he had been sharing with Lor'themar and Halduron since the Fall. The door to the Grand Magister's Asylum, however, remained conspicuously shut. Kael suspected Rommath did not yet have the heart to open it now, for what such a gesture would have meant. The most raw part of his pain would have to run its course before such a thing could happen. Kael would not force him to do so now, it would have been far too cruel. Instead, Kael would be there for him until he could.

For now, even as Lor'themar slumped weary onto the bed in the next room, Halduron cradling the stoic warrior in his arms as he finally permitted himself to weep, Kael found himself doing much the same in his own bed. Only for Kael, it was Rommath--as it had always been, as it was when they were youths and the High Queen died, when Kael fell asleep sobbing in his arms. Rommath wasn't crying just then, however. Remarkably, the man finally seemed able to get to sleep.

It was strange the way history always seemed to repeat itself in such a manner, Kael thought to himself as Rommath nestled against him, his warmth and the steady sound of his heartbeat an immense comfort to the prince. Even through the fury that burned within him, and the tremendous sense of loss, it felt so soothing simply to lie there with Rommath in his arms as he had so many times before. Kael softly kissed the top of his head, and shut his eyes, permitting himself to forget about the pain just for a few hours.

The Prince had finally returned, and all would be right again. Kael would make it so, by his word and his honor. He would not fail them again.

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in the same continuity as Heart of the Phoenix, but isn't directly connected.


End file.
